Western Wind by Paula Fox Page B

was audible. She was not wearing her pearls. A loud crack came from the fireplace as a flame-weakened log snapped and fell among embers.
    â€œI haven’t seen him today,” Elizabeth said. She wondered if anyone had heard her. The Herkimers continued to stare at her longingly, as though she could free them from fear.
    â€œHe wouldn’t get lost,” Gran said quietly. “He knows the island by this time.”
    â€œHow can anything help in this fog!” cried Mrs. Herkimer. She grabbed Deirdre’s shoulder and began to shake it. “You were supposed to watch him, you miserable girl!” she accused her.
    â€œStop it, Helen,” Mr. Herkimer said, gathering his wife close to him.
    â€œI was going to see him … but the weather … I was reading,” Elizabeth said faintly.
    Mrs. Herkimer covered her frightened face with her large hands. When she took them away, she appeared to have gained some composure. “It’s no one’s fault,” she said.
    â€œWe’ll all look for him,” Gran said briskly.
    â€œNot you, Cora,” said Mr. Herkimer.
    â€œBut I will,” Gran said without even glancing at him. “Get the flashlights, Elizabeth. The slickers, too.”
    He had wanted to be lost, Elizabeth remembered. Aaron, she cried silently. “We ought to try the cemetery first,” she said. “We usually met there.”
    â€œThe cemetery,” Mrs. Herkimer repeated dully.
    Gran kicked down the last log in the hearth, and it broke into a shower of sparks. “We’ll leave a light burning to come home to,” she said. She bent to turn up the wick in a kerosene lamp. Everyone watched her in silence.
    As the wick caught and the chimney appeared to swell with the light, Deirdre said, “I’m scared.”
    Mr. Herkimer put his other arm around her. He looked at Gran. “You mustn’t, Cora. I really wish you’d stay here. We’ll be glad of Elizabeth’s help.”
    â€œAfter we’ve done some searching, we’ll report back to your house, John. I’ll be fine. One of you ought to stay at home in case he comes back.”
    â€œI’ll stay,” Helen Herkimer said. In a despairing voice, she added, “I’m the clumsy one, anyhow.”
    The Herkimers left.
    â€œHow can we find our way?” Elizabeth asked.
    Gran hung a slicker over her shoulder and pressed a flashlight into her hand. “A step at a time,” she said.
    They went out of the cottage. “Look, it’s thinning,” Gran said. “You can see a bit of the sand spit.”
    They went over the slope to the meadow and up past the Herkimer house. It took a long time. They had to move slowly. Each step was like a deep-drawn breath.
    It was only because they knew the way so well that their feet found paths their eyes couldn’t see.
    The fog was denser in low places. The light brush of grass against her legs, the hard roots in the ground beneath her feet, a sudden strong smell of balsam—these things comforted Elizabeth.
    But her mind was filled with terrible images: Aaron dazed, wedged between rocks or clutching at seaweed and stones, trying to pull himself out of the bitter cold water, or wandering in circles in the woods.
    The flashlight seemed to concentrate the fog, to turn it a sour yellow that blinded her. She turned it off. When she looked down at the ground, she was able to recognize the low, thorny bramble she knew was close to the barn.
    â€œI’m going toward the ridge,” Gran said. “You try the cemetery.”
    Elizabeth went on. Without the flashlight, she could spot a familiar clump of flowers, or a fallen bough, or a pile of stones that Aaron had gathered. A web of dampness covered her face and hands. At moments, she held out her arms in front of her, her fingers brushing tree trunks and low branches. She stumbled constantly on roots. It was like moving through a sack filled with wet